‹ Prequel: The Pauper Princess
Status: Currently undergoing renovations.
The Game
Thirty-four
"Well what else?” I question.
“Why don’t we go get something to eat? You must be famished,” she says. I can’t think of why she’s stopped there, why she’s deflecting my question.
“Mehta, I-“
“Not now,” she interrupts quietly. She grabs a green frock from the end of the bed before turning back to me. “For now, let’s get you dressed and fed.” I’m still confused, but I am hungry. I nod my consent and she helps me stand up. My ribs protest at the use of my abdominal muscles, but it’s a weak enough protest now that I can manage to ignore it.
It takes a while for me to get down the stairs from the room I’ve been staying in, and by the time we get to the dining hall I’m practically panting. I’m immediately distracted, though, by the amazing smells coming from the kitchen. The cook spots us as we settle in at the table near the fireplace and starts loading food onto plates for us.
“They think we’re distant nobles,” Mehta whispers. I nod, but am too distracted by the array of foods that I don’t really listen. I revel in the fact that I get to eat something other than stew and stale bread. Mehta thanks the cook and I take a fork and grab a bit of every dish he’s brought out. Mehta smothers a laugh behind her hand and I force myself to slow down a bit, remembering how awful throwing up had felt with my bruised ribs.
“Alright,” I say after a few minutes, “I’m fed. Now, what are you not telling me?” Mehta looks away nervously and bites her lip. It looks like she’s about to cry. I start wracking my brain, trying to figure out what would upset her so much, when I stumble upon a detail she’s left out of her account of the past few days.
“Mehta,” I say softly, “Where are the guards?”
“Why don’t we go get something to eat? You must be famished,” she says. I can’t think of why she’s stopped there, why she’s deflecting my question.
“Mehta, I-“
“Not now,” she interrupts quietly. She grabs a green frock from the end of the bed before turning back to me. “For now, let’s get you dressed and fed.” I’m still confused, but I am hungry. I nod my consent and she helps me stand up. My ribs protest at the use of my abdominal muscles, but it’s a weak enough protest now that I can manage to ignore it.
It takes a while for me to get down the stairs from the room I’ve been staying in, and by the time we get to the dining hall I’m practically panting. I’m immediately distracted, though, by the amazing smells coming from the kitchen. The cook spots us as we settle in at the table near the fireplace and starts loading food onto plates for us.
“They think we’re distant nobles,” Mehta whispers. I nod, but am too distracted by the array of foods that I don’t really listen. I revel in the fact that I get to eat something other than stew and stale bread. Mehta thanks the cook and I take a fork and grab a bit of every dish he’s brought out. Mehta smothers a laugh behind her hand and I force myself to slow down a bit, remembering how awful throwing up had felt with my bruised ribs.
“Alright,” I say after a few minutes, “I’m fed. Now, what are you not telling me?” Mehta looks away nervously and bites her lip. It looks like she’s about to cry. I start wracking my brain, trying to figure out what would upset her so much, when I stumble upon a detail she’s left out of her account of the past few days.
“Mehta,” I say softly, “Where are the guards?”